A/N: This chapter is beastly long; sorry about that. I guess that's because I hate it and I hate what happens in it and so I just kept writing and hoping I'd end up liking it.

Meh. O.o

So, for putting up with this creature… a tank-sized thanks goes out to Eh,Man! What would I do without my beta buddy?

Anyhoot, funny story time. One of my friends, an aspiring author/poet, read this story last weekend. She informed me that Robin is an emo. Hahahaha. Do you agree?  And on the subject of Robin, be prepared to hate him…

The outlaws were seated on the lower tables of Sir Richard's hall, muttering nervously to one another. Those peasants who had fought with them were not at the meeting, as they had no prices on their heads and no part in collecting the king's ransom. David managed to keep the outlaw spirits up with various impressions of the sheriff, but Robin was still too nervous to do anything but fiddle with his frayed tunic.
King Richard came into the room unexpectedly, his face grim with determination. He was followed by Sir Richard, but not the Lady of Locksley or the sheriff. Instantly, everyone dropped to one knee. David knocked his bench over in doing so, and Robin prayed that the king hadn't heard Sara swear at him, but it went well enough. The women were all in dresses, so that the king couldn't accuse them of being unholy cross-dressers, and everyone had a pair of boots. They weren't an impressive group, but they did look like they could put up a fight, however small.

The king, on the other hand, was mightily impressive. He looked like one of those Irish giants Sara told the children stories about in her good moods– red-gold hair, broad shoulders, and very long legs. Nan thought that her king was devilishly good-looking, especially for a seasoned soldier. Robin thought he was devilishly frightening, and his elegant clothes revealed a vain streak that did not bode well. But even these telling signs didn't wipe the smile from his face. The king was home; he was home!

King Richard motioned impatiently that they could stand, and strode to his place at the head of the table. The outlaws quickly stood along the benches, gulping down what was left of their fear. They only dared seat themselves after the king did, and their just-scrubbed hands were quivering as fiercely as their hearts.

"Are we to understand that you are the outlaws of Sherwood that we have heard so much of?" King Richard began, spreading his arms wide and opening in the royal plural. The outlaws looked nervously at one another, unable to understand the Norman French. After nods from Robin and Allan, quiet murmurs of "aye" went up from everyone. It was deathly silent in the room as the restless defendants watched one another, and Sir Richard turned to Robin with worry in his eyes. Robin shot him a reassuring smile; his confidence in the king grew with each passing second.

"And where is your infamous leader?"

Robin gulped and lifted his eyes to meet Allan's. The minstrel straightened his back, lifted his chin, and called, "Here I am, Your Highness." He could see the king ordering guards in to slaughter him, or maybe even send him to Nottingham's dungeons. And he tried to pretend he was not frightened in the least, but his knees were quivering beneath the table.

"You are the one who organized this band's contribution to our ransom fund, are we correct?"

"Your Highness," Allan answered clearly, "I did indeed. But the others stole as much for your sake as I did, even if the original idea was mine."

The king leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "We will be honest with you all," he began, using the royal plural, "Upon arriving in London, we were immediately barraged with complaints of your band's dishonest exploits. Noble families from all across England blamed you for robbing them along the High Road in Sherwood. We had a clear intention of hanging your lot from the highest tree in our royal forest." There was a pause of utter silence in which the group stared blankly at him and pretended to comprehend. Robin shot Nan a grimace to give her the general air of the message, and regretted it when panic spread quickly along the benches.

"We would have stretched every neck present," the king continued, "were it not for one of our dearest friends, whom we ourselves knighted, Sir Richard of the Lea. He convinced us that you were honest men with intentions of saving us from the Austrians. He also claims that much of your stolen gold was sent as a ransom to bring us back to England. And based on his words, and those of your leader, we have decided to grant all of your pardons for your noble actions."

The room was deadly silent for a trice. Robin grinned broadly and mouthed the word 'pardon' across the table at Gatty. Allan whispered the word in Hal's ear, and soon the news had lighted on every mind in the room. A few mouths dropped open in shock, but most of the outlaws sat in stunned silence.

And then it hit them hard. David whooped, and he and John began cheerfully punching one another's shoulders. Lucy laughed merrily and clapped her hands, accepting and returning the various hugs being thrown about the room. Nan squealed excitedly, flinging her arms about Robin's neck. Ellie screeched with excitement and shook Hal in her glee. Everything was going to be fine now that the king was coming home.

Working his grinning face around Nan's arms, Robin turned to Allan and mouthed his cousin's name. Allan nodded, adjusting his feathered cap and smirking confidently. "Your Highness," he began, bending his head in respect, "I must thank you on behalf of all my followers for your boundless mercy and godly justice. In today's council, you have only bolstered the credibility of England's widespread opinion– that you are one of the fittest sovereigns to ever grace our English soil." Robin struggled mightily to straighten his smirk, listening to the lavish flattery. Allan continued unknowingly in his flowing Norman tongue, "However, I must presume to request another boon from your royal person, for there is one unsettled matter that I must address. A member of my band, the young nobleman William of Norwell, has been arrested by the Lady of Locksley on charges of murdering her forester. While not present today, due to his captivity, he is also a vital member of our band, and enthusiastic in his loyalties to your illustrious person. Is he too pardoned?"

The king sighed and shook his head. "Nay, for he killed the Lady of Locksley's forester, not ours."

Robin blurted in French. "And? Your Highness is the highest power in the land! How could the wife of some country lord tell you how to carry out justice?" He said it cheerfully enough, as if the king's last statement had been a joke.

Allan shot his leader a warning look, but Robin did not even glance in his direction. He was waiting for the king's answer, the false hope all too obvious on his face.

King Richard's eyes lowered. "No one tells us how to carry out our justice," he replied evenly, his voice frighteningly calm, "especially not a freshly pardoned outlaw in rags."

Robin was shocked. He had not meant to offend; it was just ridiculous that his mother should be able to tell the king how things were done. "Your Highness, I never meant--"

"Silence!"

Robin jumped in his seat and then nodded meekly. He stared down at the table, thoroughly cowed by the unexpected animosity. What had Will done to deserve this? He hadn't said anything to the king, had he? Or had he irritated the king with all his yelling on the journey to the Lea? But the king wouldn't…He could not do this; he could not refuse pardon to only one of the outlaws. Not to Will. Take my pardon instead.

He looked pleadingly at Allan, but the minstrel was ignoring him. "Please accept my apologies, Your Grace," Allan continued, bending his head in apology. "The common peasants are not educated in proper etiquette." His quicksilver tongue rattled off silken explanations and gold-laced flattery with enviable delicacy. "Their loyalty to yourself is unshakable, but so too is their loyalty to one another. I am sure that in your vast wisdom you understand the close bonds of a brotherhood forged between the twin jaws of death and danger. You were yourself an excellent soldier, and doubtless received such devotion from your fellow warriors. "

The king grunted in approval, eyes on the dark-haired rebel four seats down.

Quickly changing the subject, Allan ventured, "Perhaps it would be better for you and I to discuss William of Norwell's fate with the Lady of Locksley." He prayed that Robin would keep quiet and let diplomacy work its magic; with ample time and grand luck, he had no doubt in his abilities to convince the king to release Will. But if Robin decided to be impertinent…the king's temper was infamous…

Allan's calm air and comfortable set of his shoulders revealed none of these worries in his head. He continued evenly, "I can promise that my emotions will not interrupt the proceedings of order and justice. I have only once allowed myself the audacity of questioning my betters, and that was in the matter of Nottingham's current lord sheriff. I do believe him most unfit for his position. Are you going to remove this corrupt man now that you are home, Your Highness?"

King Richard shook his head. "We do not plan on staying in England for more than a year," he replied quietly.

"But your people need you!" Robin cried, his face distraught.

"We are royalty!" King Richard roared suddenly, "It is our right to engage in whatever conquests we deem necessary!"

Robin paused, staring open-mouthed at the explosion. The timidity that ran so freely through his veins had frozen over, halting all movement within him. He knew full well it was time to retreat. But there was a thick pit of anger brewing in the center of him, and it spread like brushfire through his every sense. That whoreson! King or not, he was damned selfish. He didn't want trouble with the Lady of Locksley, and so he was going to let Will die. Will. Will, who was twice the man this so-called king was, who was in love with Sara and not with the looking glass, and who was bloody well responsible for Robin being alive and sane. This Angevin bastard was going to hang Will for the sake of Robin's whoring, selfish mother.

Hell would freeze over first.

"What of our rights?" he snapped furiously, "What of the people's right to be protected and cared for by their king? Is that so suddenly invalid because of your own vain bloodlust?"

Allan fired a murderous glare at Robin, trying to silence him.

Infuriated by the impudence, Richard roared, "We do it for Christ and England, you impudent whelp!"

"More alike for your own soul!" Robin sneered, lip curling with disgust as he leaned forward across the table.

"Rob!" Nan cried, hand going to her chest. She didn't know what he was saying, but she knew that he was arguing with the king of England, and that was quite enough to convince her he was being a fool.

"And if we do?" came King Richard's angry reply, "The king's soul is the country's soul!"

"Mayhap your soul would not be in so much danger if you stayed home and saved lives, instead of gallivanting off to Jerusalem and taking them!"

David flinched.
Nan tugged on Robin' sleeve, trying to make him sit.

Allan hissed a protest at his leader, head shaking ever so slightly. He'd lose his pardon if he went on much longer. Tact would do everyone, especially Will, a hell of a lot more good than this outburst. Be silent, Robin; for Will's sake, stop your tongue.

"Rob, apologize before he takes your pardon," Nan whispered. But Robin was quaking with rage, and would listen to no one. He jerked his sleeve out of her grasp angrily, stalking towards King Richard without even nodding his head in respect.

Sara stopped breathing.

"You will sit down! We have the kingship! We were chosen so by the Lord God for this position!" King Richard continued angrily, staring down at Robin with the superiority of a noble gazing at a peasant. But Robin glowered right back at him, with as much, if not more, pride in his stare. "And? So was Christ chosen to be the Son of God! Did He abuse his position? Did He carelessly slaughter the defenseless as was His whim? Nay! He died on a damned cross to save His people! And what do you have to do save yours? You only have to stay in your own country! And you won't even do that, you selfish Norman!"

King Richard's fist broke Robin's recently healed nose on contact and he fell backwards. The sovereign, for all his noble upbringing, was still twice the size of the outlaw.

"You are not my people!" he roared. The cold words struck Robin like a backhanded slap. His mind flashed with the sounds and sights of Sara's stories, the tales of Irish tara Hill and her High Kings. And he was insanely jealous. The High King always had and always would be Irish; he spoke Gaelic, followed Brehon law, and would take the invader's sword in his own heart to save the island. Or at least Sara believed he would.

But looking up at Richard, Robin suffered no such delusion. He knew this man was no coward, but he would take the invader's sword in his heart to save his crown – not the people governed by that crown. What devilish idiocy had ever possessed him to think that a wealthy half-French giant would care for a motley nation of Saxon and Norman mutts? Because the man was a soldier? Ha! He was a commander, a general who sent such mutts to their death before his morning meal.

He felt a dry illness cracking about his mouth and drying his lips. His spit tasted of bile, and his lip tasted of blood, the pair nearly making him ill. He hated his king.

And worst of all, the hatred of the English didn't matter the worth of a rusted sword to King Richard.

Richard the Lionheart.

Richard Coeur de Lion.

Richard the Norman.

The Norman. The nitwitted, French-tongued son of a jackal Norman. Sitting on the throne just long enough to snatch the crown and sell it off for soldier's wages. And now it seemed he had come back for the throne, too. Lovely. Stunning. Smashing. Marvelous – simply magnificent.

Robin wanted to scream at the man, hit him, throw him – out a window, in a dungeon, down a well – anything violent that would burn out his rage and unclench his fists. He wanted to jam his elbow in someone's eye, snap a spine or break a nose bridge. He wanted to break a wall, splinter a bow…he wanted…he wanted…

He wanted Will out of prison.

The king was babbling, and he knew he should have been listening. "For this show of audacity, we should revoke your pardon this instant. But we will not so soon sentence a man to death who has brought us out of Phillip's grasp. Be warned, however; if you dare to correct your sovereign in that manner again, we will take the pardon without a moment of hesitation. Were it not for your well-mannered leader we should not even show such mercy now." Robin's face mottled with humiliation and rage, because he could not lift a finger in retort. He couldn't so much as shove the king. But he could use his tongue.

"Fine, then! Take it! I would rather live in the disapproval of such a self-centered one than in his debt!" Robin could not keep his fists still for all his rage was boiling inside of him. They were quaking furiously with the rest of him. How could this man who had everything leave the people he was in charge of to starve and die and be ruled by tyrants all for his own disgusting vainglory? How did he bloody well live with himself?

"If we disgust you so much, whelp, why in God's name did you give so much to our ransom? Why do you so oppose our brother?"
Robin stood, ignoring the blood trickling from his nose, and met the king's eyes. "You had a right to be king, Your Highness," he began quietly. "Your people respected that right and would not let the usurper take it from you. I suppose I had hoped that a Christian king would in turn care for their rights."

King Richard stared at him in amazement for a few moments. How did this man dare to insult his king so? Just who in Creation did he think he was?

Oh, but there the outlaw went again, challenging the king of England. His face was drawn straight and his chin was high; but the proud face so starkly contrasted the despairing eyes that it seemed those dark irises were trying to tell the rest of the body what an idiot it was. Not one of the limbs listened, particularly not the mouth. Robin's voice was a clear, quiet disappointment against the walls. "You have made it painfully obvious, my liege, that I was a fantastic idiot to think you capable of such compassion."

For only an instant, Richard was intimidated by the look of frustrated disgust that was staring him down. For maybe the first time in ten years, the king felt accused. He had been fearless at Acre; Saracen warriors were a shining trifle in the sands of the desert; he knew he had done well on Crusade; but had he done wrong by England?

It mattered not. He was king and this man was an outlaw.

"And do you know where such fantastic idiots belong, scum?" the king asked. Robin was backing towards the window, as if afraid. Nan's face softened with compassion, and she turned pleading eyes to Allan. But the minstrel's eyes were riveted on the advancing king, and she could see he was struggling to find the words that would save Robin that man's wrath.

King Richard smirked wickedly at Robin. "Hiding in Sherwood like the dogs they are. Or even better, sacrificing heads they don't use to contribute to funding for the next Crusade. How much is yours worth now? 500 pounds? Or is it 1000?"

Robin set his shoulders back and his chin high. "My head is worth nothing, since my king obviously sees value in no life besides his own." Before the king could react, Robin had dropped out of the window.

The king motioned to one of the guards at the doorway. "Kill the bastard. His pardon's been revoked." He had not truly been planning to take away the pardon, but after that last show of audacity, he was quite prepared to call out the guard. The outlaw would soon learn just how dear his life was.

Allan started forward, as if he were actually considering blocking the doorway. Nan opened her mouth to beg the king for mercy, and John half-rose from the bench.

But suddenly Sir Richard of the Lea dropped to one knee at the king's feet. "Your Highness," Sir Richard pleaded, "when I saved your life at Aquitaine you promised me any boon I asked. I beg you now not to take the life of the outlaw."

The king's eyebrows shot upward. He was greatly fond of Sir Richard, who though a quiet and humble speaker, brilliantly outdid his words when he fought. Why could this brave man want some half-dog forest scum alive? He knew Sir Richard was kind-hearted; he had seen it from the almost unmanly compassion the knight had shown to wounded men. But this was completely unexpected. He looked down in puzzlement at his friend, and knew that whatever the oddity he'd grant the request. King Richard, no matter his faults, was exceedingly brave, and he loved a brave man.

Sir Richard smiled weakly up at his king. "Please, my sovereign and friend. Please. He did not mean what he said."
The king helped Sir Richard to his feet. "My friend, we will spare the outlaw's life, but we cannot let you waste your boon on his head. We will not see you throw such a thing away, though God knows you are welcome to more than one."

"So the outlaw lives? And you will leave him his pardon?"

"Aye, he lives, and he keeps the pardon. Devil take you for asking so much of us." King Richard sighed and returned to his seat. Nan practically gasped aloud with relief, palm over her thumping heart.

"But what is this about the sheriff you asked earlier, Robin Hood?" King Richard turned to Allan, questions in his eyes.

Allan was still recovering from the anxiety of before, so his answer was far from eloquent. "He is – he oppresses the people terribly and is mightily corrupt!"

"Very well. After I have something in this stomach of mine, we shall discuss this supposed blackguard." He nodded at Sir Richard. "Pray, see that you call him. We are to decide the fate of this sheriff today."

A/N: A note on the "we" thing: The use of that word isroyal megalomania, weirdly enough. They use the word "we" when talking about themselves, because supposedly their opinions are that of the whole country. (Ego-central) So when they make a statement, they're speaking 'as the whole country' - "L'etat c'est moi" and all that jazz. It's basically saying: "I'm so freaking smart that nobody could ever disagree with me, and so I might as well speak for everyone now."
The things you learn when reading Philippa Gregory novels...

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